


With Friends Like These

by RemindMeWhoIAm



Series: The Care and Keeping of Railroad Spies [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deacon being Deacon, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nora being Nora, Platonic Female/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemindMeWhoIAm/pseuds/RemindMeWhoIAm
Summary: Not every mission goes smoothly.  Deacon finds this out the hard way.





	With Friends Like These

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my Writers of Awesome, particularly Ariejul and Sunsolace, for encouraging me during writing, letting me bounce ideas off them, and just generally being super helpful.

    Goodneighbor was quieter than usual, the cold driving its usual contingent of drifters and junkies to seek shelter indoors.  The snow flurries had tapered off by the time Deacon slipped in the side gate, jacket buttoned up to his chin and hat pulled down low.  His ears were still ringing from the gunfire he’d barely escaped on the way in.

    Daisy’s store was closed up, lights dark, though KL-E0 was still doing business, parked ominously behind the counter like always.  He hurried past, trying to look like he was just eager to get out of the weather, weaving between patches of dirty ice on the way to the Memory Den.

    It wasn’t terribly warm inside, but it was at least draft-free.  Deacon rubbed his palms together and saw himself down to Dr. Amari’s lab, nodding hello to Irma on his way.  In the lab, Amari had her back turned to him, fiddling with the controls on a Lounger console. The synth was sitting in the corner, huddling a bit on herself, still dressed in a dirty gray Institute jumper.  Before Deacon could open his mouth, Amari turned around and beckoned him over.

    “We’ve got problems,” she said.  Deacon’s stomach fell but he nodded and crossed to Amari’s side.

    “She refused the memory wipe,” Amari continued, dropping her voice. “Seeker dropped her off about three hours ago and said Griff never showed, so she hasn’t had a face change, either.”

    Deacon blew out a heavy breath. “What’s the good news, Doc?”

    Amari gave him a wry smile. “Professor’s in town.”

 

    Professor  _ was _ in town, but getting to her was another matter entirely.

    “No.”   
    Hancock leaned back in his chair, taking a draw off his cigarette, and gave Deacon a flat look from under the brim of his hat.  Deacon glanced over Hancock’s shoulder to the door behind him, a solid wooden one closed firmly and behind which the mayor had the Railroad’s secret weapon sequestered.

    “Look, it’s one quick trip,” Deacon pleaded, taking a step closer. “Since when does she let you tell her what to do, anyway?”

    Hancock scowled. “I’m not telling her to do anything,” he said, “All I said was I’m not waking her up.  You know how much she’s slept in the last six weeks?”

    “We’re going north,” Deacon countered, “She can go straight to Sanctuary afterwards.  I just need her help getting up there.”

    Hancock looked unconvinced, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on his desk.  Deacon shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at the clock on the wall.

    “It’s all farmland north of County Crossing,” Hancock replied, “I have trouble believing you can’t make it through there.”

    “The area is crawling with Brotherhood,” Deacon said, “They’re antagonizing the raiders and mutants; I can’t take a package through there on my own.”

    “Fuckin’ assholes,” Hancock muttered, “Don’t you usually take packages south?”

    “This one has to go north,” Deacon said, “Please, I’m literally begging.”

    Hancock contemplated him for a moment, then sighed. “One hour,” he said at last, “I’ll have her ready to go in one hour.”

 

    The next hour passed slow but uneventful as Deacon dug up a suitable wasteland outfit for the synth and burned her old jumper.  When exactly one hour had passed, they left the Memory Den and made for the Old State House. Nora was stepping out the door as they approached, a basic traveling bag on one shoulder and her shotgun on the other.

    “Where we headed?” she asked when he got close, foregoing any semblance of greeting or small talk.  Deacon felt a pang of guilt looking at her. He hadn’t seen her since just after the explosion six weeks prior, though he’d kept his ear to the ground for news.  He could see why Hancock had been unwilling to wake her -- her normally bright gray eyes looked dull and disinterested, bluish bags hanging under them, the ends of her hair frizzy and unkempt as they poked out from under a snug knitted cap.  She cheeks were hollow, like she’d lost weight, but it was hard to be certain as she’d wrapped herself in a bulky gray coat.

    “The lighthouse on the coast,” Deacon replied, “We’ve got eighteen hours to get there or we’ll miss the transfer.”

    It was actually closer to sixteen hours, but he was fairly certain Nora, if anyone, could get them there with time to spare.

    “And I guess a smooth path is too much to ask for?” she sighed, shifting her pack and leading the way towards the gates. 

    “Brotherhood and mutants skirmishing,” Deacon replied.

    “There’s a raider gang causing trouble on the main road to the Slog, according to Radio Freedom,” Nora added and Deacon cringed inwardly.  He should have known he couldn’t keep those kinds of details from her. She didn’t seem upset with him, however, slinging her shotgun off her shoulder as they left the safety of Goodneighbor’s neon and headed into the Boston ruins.

    “What’s your name?” Nora asked after they’d walked a bit, coming in sight of Bunker Hill.  She glanced over at the synth, who looked surprised.

    “M-my name?” she stammered, “I’m unit --”

    Nora held up a hand and shook her head. “You’re not a ‘unit’ anymore,” she said, “I made sure of that.  You need a  _ name _ .”

    Deacon followed close behind as they walked, half-listening as Nora and the synth tossed names back and forth.  This was something Nora had always done with the synths they moved, asked their names, like she was trying to commit each one to memory.  Deacon wanted to tell her she was setting herself up for heartbreak that way, but it wasn’t like she would listen to him -- she never did.

    “I like that one,” the synth said as they left the shadow of Bunker Hill, turning a shy smile on Nora.

    “Stephanie?” Nora asked, “Then that’s what we’ll call you.”

    She glanced back at Deacon, as if daring him to say something, but he knew better than to take the bait.

    They continued on in relative silence, Nora occasionally pointing out a landmark or describing something for the synth -- Stephanie -- with all the detail and familiarity of someone who had lived there her whole life.  He wondered sometimes what it was like to wander the streets of Boston, knowing several lifetimes had passed her by while she remained frozen in time, but it wasn’t the sort of thing Nora would talk about. Occasionally, she let something slip --  _ this place used to be a really great bookstore, always seemed like there was a traffic jam around this intersection, had the best oysters of my life in that corner bar --  _ but that was the closest she came to telling him about life before she entered 111.

    Not that he blamed her.  He trusted her about as much as he trusted anyone, but he was pretty sure he was low on her list of confidantes, and for good reason.  Better that way; better she never got attached to him because attachments were just fuel. The Institute may have been gone, but threats were still everywhere and eventually he’d cash in the last of his borrowed lives and bite it.  Even if he never ended up as leverage against her, he didn’t want her to mourn him. Him, of all people.

    They made good time from Bunker Hill to County Crossing, encountering nothing more dangerous than a couple molerats they took out before they could even get close.  It was dark when they passed County Crossing, though Deacon could hear the distant sounds of lasers and pipe pistols. It was faint, a few miles away still. Nora slowed and lead them over to an abandoned bus on the side of the road.  She unhooked her Pip-Boy from her wrist and handed it to Deacon, then took the pistol off her hip and gave it to Stephanie.

    “I’m going to see if there’s a way to get around them,” she said, “Twenty minutes, Deke.  If I’m not back then, go straight back to Goodneighbor.”

    Right, he wanted to say but didn’t.  Go back to Goodneighbor and inform the mayor and his obnoxiously long knife that he’d gotten her killed.  No problem.

    “This is the safety,” Nora continued, pointing out the tiny switch on the side of the pistol. “It’s got ten shots. Wait until they’re close and aim for the middle.  If you can’t get a hit or run out of bullets, just beat the shit out of them with the handle.”

    Stephanie looked petrified but nodded obediently.  Before Deacon could object, Nora hefted her shotgun and disappeared into the shadows.

    Deacon glanced down at the time on the Pip-Boy and began the countdown.  He could feel Stephanie watching him, her green eyes wide and bright in the darkness.  

    “I was wiped once before,” she blurted suddenly, nearly whispering as they huddled in the protective shadow of the bus. “I don’t -- don’t know why, but I remember waking up in the chair and everything was gone.  That’s why I didn’t want the memory wipe from the doctor.”

    Deacon wasn’t sure what to say to her so he just nodded. “There’s a place you can go that’s safer,” he said, “Up north.  There’s a boat waiting.”

    “Thank you,” Stephanie replied, “Thank you so much.”

    “Don’t thank me,” Deacon said.  Stephanie looked taken aback, but was distracted by a shotgun blast that echoed in the darkness.  Deacon tensed. The blast sounded closer than he would have liked, but it had only been seven minutes.  He glanced around the edge of the bus into the darkness. He couldn’t hear any more laser rifles, but there was still the  _ pop pop pop  _ of ballistic guns not far off.  There was another shotgun blast, closer even than before, and footsteps pounded on the pavement.  Deacon stood and grabbed Stephanie’s arm, ready to run, when Nora appeared in a patch of moonlight, running toward them.

    “I got rid of the Brotherhood and the mutant hound,” she panted, beckoning them to follow her. “There’s two on my tail, but the road is clear.  Go, I’ll catch up.”

    Deacon nodded, taking a second to look her over -- she was pale and out of breath, her coat splattered with blood, but she looked uninjured.

    “Someone’s still shooting,” Stephanie objected as Deacon tugged on her arm.  Nora shook her head. 

    “That’s the Finches’ turret,” she replied, “ _ Get moving _ .”

    They ran, following the broken road north.  A few hundreds yards from the bus they’d used as cover was the carnage of a recent skirmish, a pair of Brotherhood soldiers, one in power armor, lying dead amongst the splattered remains of a mutant hound and one of its masters.  Deacon picked his way between the bodies, leading Stephanie and noting that the armored soldier had been shot in the side, a shotgun spray right between the front and back plates. The major weak spot, usually hard to get to but open to someone skilled with a weapon who was also familiar with power armor.

    Stephanie stumbled but kept going, spurred by the sound of Nora’s shotgun going off twice behind them.  There was a screech, the distinctly angered cry of a super mutant, then a headache-inducing clamor, and silence.  Nora had used one of her beloved grenades. 

    Deacon stopped and waited, then sighed in relief when she came pounding up to them.  The sleeve of her coat was torn and hanging loose at the elbow.

    “You alright?” 

    She nodded and waved them forward. “Got this shirt from Tom,” she said, indicating the undamaged flannel she wore underneath the coat. “Come on.  I don’t think we attracted anyone’s attention, but we don’t want to hang around and find out.”   


    They kept going at a brisk pace, Nora leading the way across the river near the Slog, past a Gunner outpost, and into the last stretch of open wilderness before the lighthouse.  There was no sign of the raider gang the intel and Radio Freedom had been squawking about, but Deacon wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

    They made it to the lighthouse with fifteen minutes to spare.  The boat was idling at the docks, his runner at the helm looking impatient.  She was shrouded in a dark raincoat of some sort and handed a second to Stephanie as she stepped timidly onto the boat.

    “Stay in the pilot house and try not to get sick,” she said by way of greeting.  Stephanie nodded obediently, then started and turned back to Nora.

    “Here,” she said, holding out the little pistol Nora had lent her.

    “Keep it,” Nora replied, “Best not to get into a fight at all, but sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

    The runner nodded approvingly and Stephanie gave Nora a smile. “Thanks.”   


    “Be safe wherever you’re going.”   


    She and Deacon waited on the dock until the boat had disappeared from sight up the coast.  Cold, salty air stung his cheeks and he held in a sigh of relief. He glanced over just as Nora lifted a fist to cover a huge yawn.

    “I told Hancock I could go with you over to Sanctuary afterwards,” he said but she shook her head.

    “I’ve still got stuff to do downtown,” she answered, voice cracking around the yawn. “Let’s go, this place is cold as balls.”

    “We can stop and take a catnap if you want.  Got a hidey-hole not far from here, good and warm.”

    “Thanks, but I’ll stick it out until I can get to my own bed,” Nora replied, stifling another yawn.  Deacon nodded and they set off, taking a different route down the coast, this time their pace less rushed.  They walked in silence past Longneck Lukowski’s and Nora slung her shotgun back over her shoulder, staring ahead with unfocused eyes.

    “How’ve you been?” Deacon asked after a bit.  Her silence was uncharacteristic and made him feel weird, on edge.

    “Hm?”   


    “How’ve you been,” Deacon repeated as she turned to him looking puzzled. 

    “Same old, same old,” she answered with a shrug, “Always got work to do.”   


    He hummed in agreement and they continued walking.  He knew there was more to be said, more to talk about, but damned if he knew what to say.  The explosion was still fresh in his memory, six weeks later, as was her face in the aftermath.  That hollow look, the empty vessel he was seeing shades of now as they headed back to Goodneighbor.

    They were friends, he guessed, which meant he was supposed to say something to her.  Right? 

    They were approaching Gibson Point Pier when Deacon noticed the tracks in the sand, the shell casings scattered around.  He held out a hand to catch Nora’s attention, but she was already pulling her shotgun off her shoulder. Wordlessly, they split, Nora slipping into cover behind a row of old mailboxes, Deacon behind a bombed-out Corvega.  He saw Nora lean forward to peek out from her spot and then dart back into cover.

    “What’s up, Beck?”

    A few dozen feet ahead, the door to an ancient roadside diner banged open with a rusty squeal.  Deacon grit his teeth as his knees creaked in protest, but he didn’t move.

    “Thought I heard something,” the raider replied.  Deacon shifted just enough to see between a crack in the plates of the Corvega.  He counted five raiders, two inspecting the road around the pier and three lounging in the old diner.  He had a Stealth Boy in his jacket pocket, but he didn’t want to abandon Nora there on the pier.

_ The problem with partnering up _ , a voice in his head complained.

    “I don’t see anything,” Beck’s fellow raider said, voice carrying in the empty space. “Jet’s makin’ you jittery.”

    Deacon looked over at Nora.  She was crouched down, shotgun laid across her knees, easing her bag off.  He gestured at her, shaking his head and drawing a line over his throat with his finger, but she gestured back, hands held up and eyes wide.

_ What the hell else are we going to do?   _ He could hear it as clear as if she’d shouted it in his ear.  His heart jumped into his throat as she reached into the bag and pulled out two grenades.  Nora and her damned grenades.

    He couldn’t help but admire her sheer audacity as she ripped the pin out of one grenade, stood up out of cover for every sniper in the world to see, and then threw.  One of the raiders yelled and Deacon covered his ears, but the concussive blast jolted him anyway, making his eyes water.

    The raiders were yelling and screaming in pain.  Nora threw the other grenade and Deacon lifted his rifle.

    “We were having such a nice stroll along the beach,” he yelled at Nora, “A little bit of patience and we never would have had to waste ammo!”

    “Shut up and shoot these bastards!” she yelled back, ducking as a spray of bullets tore into the mailboxes she was hidden behind.  Deacon shoved his rifle into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Glass shattered and a strangled scream followed.

    “She’s got a friend!” one of the raiders yelled.  Deacon swore under his breath. So much for stealth.

    Two of the raiders charged towards Nora’s hiding spot, one shooting wildly with a crude handmade machine gun.  The other was carrying a tire iron wrapped in rusty barbed wire. Nora jumped back out of cover, shotgun to her shoulder, and a blast rang out.  The gun-toting raider fell backwards, blood spurting from a wound on his shoulder.

    “You bitch!” 

    The tire iron swung in a wide arc as Deacon ejected the casing from his rifle and loaded the next shot.  Nora ducked and missed the weapon by mere centimeters, then threw herself at the raider just as Deacon squeezed again.  The shot missed and sailed through a telephone pole behind them.

     “Son of a bitch,” Deacon seethed, standing out of his cover.  Nora had tackled the tire iron-swinging raider, going for his knees and knocking him flat.  Deacon knew from all the times she had tackled him as grenades and mines went off that she knew what she was doing, 125 pounds of solid muscle and redheaded fury, but it still made his stomach flop the way she engaged so up and close.

    “You ruined my lazy day,” he yelled, kicking away the machine gun as the injured raider reached for it.  A .38 went straight through his skull and splattered gore across the road. Nora let out an angered yell, still tussling with the other raider.  She had skill and rage on her side, but it didn’t so much when her opponent was so much larger; the raider easily threw her off and went for his weapon, which had skittered a few feet away.  Deacon didn’t have time to ready his rifle, so he swung the butt forward, wood connecting with bone in one shiver-inducing  _ crunch _ .  The raider fell and twitched, then went still.

    “You okay?” he asked, turning and holding out a hand to Nora.  She nodded, grabbing his hand and hoisting herself up. 

    “Guess that one had a few too many psychobuff,” she replied, chest heaving as she sucked in air. “I owe you one.”   


    “Don’t mention it.  I’m sure you’ll get us into more life or death situations in the future.”   


    She gave him a dirty look and he was about to say something else when there was a pop and something tore through the sleeve of his jacket.

    They’d forgotten about the fifth raider.

    It was the leader, Beck, dragging one leg as he peppered the ground around them with bullets.  

    “I knew it!” Deacon yelled as he and Nora dove for cover, “Didn’t I say it?”   


    “How is this my fault?” Nora shouted back, leaning just out of cover to snatch up her shotgun.

    “I used to go whole  _ days  _ without massacring a bunch of things until  _ you _ showed up!”

    “Oh, shut up!” 

    She fired the shotgun, the blast reverberating around Deacon’s skull like a gong.  He dimly heard her yell and felt her shoving at his back.

    “That way!”

    She shoved him again, herding him toward one of the cars on the other side of the road.  The raider shouted obscenities at them, hobbling forward as Nora reloaded her shotgun. Deacon stood and yanked back the bolt on his rifle; a still-hot shell popped out and the next one slid into place.

    They fired at the same time.  Deacon watched the raider fall backwards, blood blooming on his chest and suddenly his backside was on fire.  His leg buckled and he pitched forward, the pocket of his jeans flapping loosely. He could feel blood seeping down the back of his leg as the fire beaded into stabbing pains across his ass and thigh.

    “Deacon!”

    Nora came running up, practically tripping over herself as she knelt to help him, shotgun abandoned on the pavement.

    “Deke, I’m so sorry,” she babbled, “I didn’t mean to -- Deke, are you alright?”   


    He gasped and fell to his side, Nora’s face swimming a bit in front of his.

    “You shot me in the ass,” he muttered, “I saved your life and you shot me in the ass.”

    “Stay right there,” Nora replied, standing and disappearing.

    “As if I’m going anywhere with shotgun pellets in my ass,” Deacon answered, but she was already gone.  He craned his neck and saw her rifling through her pack, which had been left near the mailbox.

    “Shit,” he heard her mutter.

    “What now?”

    “Nothing,” she replied, zipping the bag and slinging it onto her shoulder. “Can you walk?”   


    “For miles,” Deacon answered, hoisting himself onto one elbow.  Nora grabbed her shotgun in one hand and his arm in the other.

    “Come on,” she said, “Lean on me.  There’s a place just up the road where I can get you fixed up.”

    “I can’t lean on you, you’re a shrimp,” Deacon said, wobbling as she yanked and hoisted him up. “It’s like using a crutch made for a kid.”   


    “Come  _ on, _ ” Nora repeated, “Those pellets have got to come out or they’re going to get infected.”   


    “What’re you going to do, shake them out?” Deacon asked, leaning on her wiry little frame. “You are not a medical professional and I don’t trust you.”   


    Nora grunted and readjusted his arm over her shoulders. “Well, I’m your only option at the moment,” she said, “Let’s go.”   
  


    Nora’s “place” was an abandoned prewar house a mile or so away.  Deacon watched, leaned against the old porch railing, as she used a large knife to pop the plywood over the doorway out of place, opening up the inside.  She slipped the knife back into her belt and then grabbed Deacon, depositing him unceremoniously inside on a dank, dusty couch. He fell sideways, hissing in pain as fiery knives stabbed at his backside.  Nora popped the plywood pack in place over the door, shrouding them in afternoon shadows.

    “Take your pants off,” she said.  He heard a click and then a gnarly green light flashed from her Pip-Boy.

    “I’m flattered, Professor, but I don’t think I’m really up to that right now,” Deacon replied, shifting his weight gingerly.  She glared at him, her face bathed in green light.

    “Can you be serious for three minutes?” she snapped, “We need to fix you up as soon as possible.”

    “Just hand me a stimpak and a beer, I’ll be alright,” Deacon replied, glaring back.

    “Deacon, even if I had a stimpak, we’d still need to take out those pellets --”

    “What do you mean, ‘if you had a stimpak’?” he asked, blanching as his eyebrows lifted up over his sunglasses.

    Nora sighed. “I had three on me and they got smashed,” she said, “So we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”   


    “We’re not doing  _ anything _ the old-fashioned way!” Deacon yelped, edging down the couch and away from her. 

    “I’ve still got antibiotics and Med-X,” Nora said, holding up her hands placatingly. “Tweezers and twenty minutes --”

    “You keep your tweezers away from me, Dr. Frankenstein,” Deacon snapped, pushing himself up off the couch and limping farther away. “I’d rather let my buttcheek rot off.”

    “A lot more than your ass is going to rot off if you don’t sit down and let me help you,” Nora replied, rolling her eyes. “At best you’re going to go septic and die of organ failure, though you might live long enough to get lead poisoning.”

    “I’m not going to get lead poisoning,” Deacon shot back.

    “Yes you will, because those pellets are made of lead,” Nora said, “I made them myself.”

    “Who makes shotgun pellets out of lead anymore?!”   


    “A woman who doesn’t have access to a fucking blacksmith’s forge,” she yelled back, “Lead melts at a little under 700 degrees, which is way less than -- look, it doesn’t matter.  Just take off your pants, please.”   


    Deacon glared at her and she glared back.  After a moment, he gave a heavy sigh and grabbed at his zipper. 

    “Fine,” he said, “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

    “As  _ if, _ ” Nora replied, “Did any hit you in the back?”

    “Not that I can feel,” Deacon grumbled, letting his shredded jeans fall to the ground. “Where do you want me?”

    “This table,” Nora answered, dragging an ancient Formica table out of the adjoined dining room. “Lay down while I get my stuff ready.”

    “Why do I travel with you,” Deacon muttered, leaning his good side on the edge of the table before hoisting himself up.

    “Because I’m the best,” Nora replied absently, “Underwear, too.”   


    “What?” Deacon whined, “ _ Really _ ?”   


    “Yes, really,” Nora said, a bite of impatience in her voice. “Stop stalling, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”   


    “It’s  _ everything  _ you haven’t seen before.”   


    “Don’t flatter yourself, Deke.  You’ve seen one penis, you’ve seen them all.”

    Deacon made a face at her. “Turn around.”   


    “For fuck’s sake, Deacon…”

    “Turn around!”

    Nora rolled her eyes but did as told, her back to him as he slipped off his underwear and tossed them on top of his jeans.  Destroyed, both of them, the one time he didn’t have any spares.

    He flopped down onto his stomach, feeling ridiculously exposed.  He heard a plastic crack and jumped, heart racing.

    “What are you doing?”   


    “Washing my hands,” Nora answered, turning back to show him the bottle of purified water she was pouring out over one hand and then the other. “Unless you’d like a  secondary infection.”   


    Deacon didn’t answer, just crossed his arms and put his head down on them. “This is ridiculous.”   


    “Alright, then I’ll take you to Carrington,” Nora snapped, “You wanna get pellets dug out of your ass in the middle of HQ?”

    Deacon huffed. “No.”

    “Then stop  _ whining _ ,” Nora replied, slightly calmer. “Look, I’ve done this before and my patient is still alive and well, so I promise you that you’re not going to die.”

    Deacon turned to face her. “You’ve shot someone else in the butt?”   


    She curled her lip and scowled at him. “No, asshole, I haven’t,” she answered acidly, “A frag grenade caught Preston a couple months ago.  He had shrapnel in his side and we were way down south in Bumfuck Nowhere, so I had to pull it out.”   


    Deacon sighed. “Can we just get this over with?  I’m kind of feeling exposed here.”

    “Patience,” Nora replied.  Deacon closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything other than how he was sitting in the middle of some decrepit old dump, his most private of private parts hanging out for all the world to see.  The embarrassment alone was enough to make him forget the pain.

    At least, he thought so, until Nora went for the first pellet.

    “Ow, son of a bitch!” he yelped, pulling away and rolling to face her. “What are you doing?”   


    “Trying to get shotgun pellets out of your scrawny buttcheeks, remember?” Nora yelled back, waving a bloody pair of tweezers at him. “Or did you forget?”

    “Could you be gentle?!”

    “I barely touched you!”

    “Tell that to my throbbing pain!”

    Nora sighed and rubbed at her forehead. “Deacon, please,” she said, brow furrowed. “Sit still.  I need better light.”

    She set her tweezers down on the cloth she’d laid out next to her medkit and walked away into the darkness.  Deacon squinted and listened. He heard the squeak of old hinges and then metallic clanging. After a moment, light flared in a nearby corner.  Nora came back over, carrying an oil lantern and a small bit of rope. Quick and nimble, she tied the lantern to the exposed second floor supports, flooding their makeshift surgical space with yellow light.

    “That’s better,” she said, “Alright, sit still.”   


    “You didn’t think of that earlier?”

    Nora glared at him but didn’t say anything, letting a little more water run over her hands.

    “Sit still,” she repeated after a minute.  Deacon sighed and settled back down, his forehead on his crossed arms.  He felt a hand on his lower back and then a sharp prick.

    “Ow,” he whined, “What the hell?”   


    “Med-X,” Nora answered, “It’ll take a little bit to kick in since I didn’t get a vein but it’ll help.”

    Deacon felt a momentary rush of panic, balling his fists to keep himself from launching off the table. 

    “I don’t like Med-X,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice the shaking in his voice.

    “Well, I don’t like listening to you whine,” Nora replied, holding her cleaned tweezers over a lighter’s flame. “I need you to sit still so I can work.”

    “I’d rather just have the beer and stimpak,” he muttered to himself.

    “So I’ve heard,” Nora replied dryly, “Hold on, this will sting a bit.”   


    He tensed and hissed as she dabbed something cold and wet on his already cold butt.

    “What is that?”   


    “Antiseptic,” Nora replied, “Curie makes it up in Sanctuary.  It’ll help keep these holes from getting infected.”

    “My ass was already on fire,” Deacon complained, “Geez.  That shit is going to strip the skin off.”   


    “Oh, please,” Nora replied, “That’s nothing.  When I got mauled by that mutant hound we didn’t have any medical supplies so Preston used vodka on me.”   


    Deacon turned his head to face the wall, trying to relax himself.  He could trust her, couldn’t he? It was one dose, one quick injection, it’d be out of his system in a few hours at most.  He could handle it.

    “He used vodka?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

    “Mmhm,” Nora hummed, “Our supply building was destroyed.”

    “Did it help?”

    “It would have if he had remembered to sterilize his instruments, too,” Nora said, “He had to stitch me up.  Mac and Hancock held me down.”

    “Sounds like fun,” he replied, tensing and whining to himself as he felt the tweezers digging around. “A lot of fun.”   


    “Not exactly,” Nora said, “Not enough to repeat the experience, anyway.”   


    “When was that?”   


    “Before I killed the Courser,” she said, “Hold still, I’ve almost got it.”

    He clenched his jaw and fists and tried not to yell at her.  After a few seconds, he felt her pull back.

    “One down,” she said, “You want it?”   


    She dropped the bloody pellet into his open palm and then wiped at his buttcheek.  He stared at it and sighed.

    “How many more?”

    Nora was quiet for a moment. “Twelve or thirteen, looks like.”   


    Deacon whimpered into his folded arms. “Just shoot me in the head now.”

    Nora patted the back of his leg.  It was a strange gesture, almost motherly, and he felt himself relax involuntarily into it.  When he realized, he shook himself and shifted on the table.

    “Hold still,” Nora said, her voice firm but much gentler than it had been.

    “You got mauled before you killed the Courser?” Deacon asked, and Nora hummed her agreement. “Is that why you were limping when you got to HQ?”

    “I wasn’t limping anymore by then,” Nora replied with a touch of indignance. 

    “Yes, you were,” Deacon said, “You were trying not to but I could tell.”

    Nora huffed behind him. “You try getting chewed on by one of those mutts and then not limp for two months,” she muttered, “I’ve still got nerve damage in that leg.”

    “I’m not judging,” Deacon answered, tensing as the tweezers shifted and dug around. “Just making observations.”

    “Right,” Nora said, “So how long were you stalking me before I found HQ?”

    “Months,” Deacon blurted, then cringed.  He had never meant to let her in on that little secret.

    “I thought so,” Nora said, “Always felt like someone was following me.”

    “You really like to wander,” Deacon continued as a voice in the back of his head hissed at him to shut up, “Hard to keep track of sometimes.”

    “Why me, though?” 

    Deacon relaxed into the table.  His head was starting to swim, the Med-X hitting him hard and making him feel sleepy and floaty.

    “Piece of prewar history claws her way out of a supposedly abandoned vault looking for the Institute, it’s my job to stalk her.”

    “I wasn’t looking for the Institute until after I killed Kellogg,” Nora said, “And I didn’t talk about it with anyone, really.”

    “I have my ways of knowing,” Deacon replied, closing his eyes.  His head felt heavy, like a block of concrete. He could barely feel Nora’s tweezers anymore, and the pain had dulled from fiery throbs to dull aching.  He had to hand it to her -- she always had the  _ good _ chems.

    “Med-X kicking in?”   


    Deacon chuckled to himself and nodded. “How could you tell?”   


    “You’re not mouthing off and wiggling anymore,” Nora replied.  He heard a dull clink as she dropped another pellet onto the table. “Four down.”

    “Hooray,” Deacon mumbled, deadpan as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “Where do you get these chems, Nora?”

    She snorted. “I’m shacked up with the mayor of Goodneighbor,” she said, “Good old Commonwealth spy like yourself should be able to figure that out.”

    Deacon sighed. “Marowski is such a pain in the ass,” he grumbled, “I know Hancock likes his goodies, but the guy is scum.”

    “He’s powerful,” Nora replied, “Hancock doesn’t like him either but he hasn’t got the kind of power to get rid of him completely.”

    “Is that right?”   


    “Kick him out of Goodneighbor and suddenly all the chems are laced or shit quality and kill people in one hit,” Nora continued, “Or another Goodneighbor pops up and there’s a money-grubbing asshole at the helm.  Again.”

    “The demon you know…”

    “Basically,” Nora replied, “Keeping Marowski in Goodneighbor keeps him on a leash.”

    “Guess the old ghoul is deeper than I thought.”   


    Nora was silent for a moment. “A lot of people are deeper than you first think.”

    Deacon closed his eyes again. “Used to be on a first name basis with the chems,” he said, “Starting to feel like old friends again.”   


    “Hard not to find a friend in the needle out here,” Nora replied.  Her voice was quiet and distant, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Six down.”

    “We should start calling you Doctor instead of Professor,” Deacon said, “You’re good at this.”

    “I pay attention when Curie talks,” Nora answered, “And I used to help my husband study.”   


    “He was a doctor?”

    “He was,” Nora said, “He was in med school while I was in law school.  We used to joke that we helped each other so much, he needed an honorary J.D. and I needed an honorary M.D.”

    “That’s so cute,” Deacon said, chuckling again. “I miss that.”

    “Miss it?”

    Deacon sighed and nodded into his folded arms. “Yeah.”

 

    Deacon started, jerking himself out of blackness into the present.  He was cold, still lying prone on the table, but with a scratchy blanket thrown over him.  He pushed himself up, still a bit dizzy, and looked around.

    “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

    Deacon glanced over.  Nora was sitting on the old couch nearby, one leg crossed over the other, fiddling with her Pip-Boy.

    “How long was I out?”   


    “Not quite an hour,” Nora said, squinting at the clock on her Pip-Boy. “My supply cache had some old clothes in it.”

    She nodded to a neatly-folded pile next to him on the Formica table.  He nodded and sat up, wrapping the blanket around his bare bottom half.  His leg and butt were still tender, throbbing a bit when he put pressure on them.

    “We can hang here for a bit longer if you need some time,” Nora said absently, not looking at him.  He shook his head and stumbled off the table, legs like jelly.

    “I’m good, Boss,” he replied, shimmying into the pants.  They were a bit large on him, waistband wrinkling around his navel, but he’d make do.

    “I pulled fourteen pellets out,” she said, “Sorry again, but you should be back to normal in a few days.”

    “Feel better already,” Deacon lied.  Nora looked up at him, eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, but didn’t say anything. 

    “Alright,” she said, “Let’s get going, then.”

 

    It was midday when they made it back to Goodneighbor, still cold but sunny and bearable.  Nora seemed to perk up a bit as they strolled through the gates, making a beeline for the Old State House.

    “You gonna stick around for a bit?”   


    Deacon shook his head. “You know me, Boss,” he said, “I was born a ramblin’ man.”   


    Nora rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Whatever,” she answered, “At least come get some supplies before you go.  It’s the least I can do for shooting you in the ass.”

    “Ah,” Deacon said, waving her off. “Water under the bridge, Boss.”   


    “Then take a bag and stick it in a dead drop,” she insisted, “I have more than I can use and there’s someone out there who will make good use of it.”

    The inside of the State House was quiet and deserted, save for a lone Watchman on the first floor.

    “Mayor’s over at the Rexford,” he said to Nora as they entered, “Some old drifter causing trouble.”

    “Thanks, Bob,” Nora replied, “I’ll just be upstairs.”

    Bob nodded and Nora led the way up the spiral stairs, into the dank, dark room Hancock called his office.  She flopped onto a dusty couch and gestured at a trunk in the corner.

    “That’s my stash,” she said, yawning. “Take whatever you want; I can always get more.”   


    “You’re solid gold, Professor.”   


    She grunted in reply as Deacon knelt and rummaged through the trunk.  How Nora always managed to find such an abundance of resources was beyond him, but she did.  It was too bad she and Dez butted heads so often; Nora could have solved a lot of the Railroad’s problems if Dez accepted outside help once in a while.

    Deacon took the empty knapsack in the trunk and filled it with a handful of necessities, stimpaks and Rad-X, a few packages of brahmin jerky, clean clothes and a stocked medkit.  His hidey-holes were supplied with anything he needed, but Ticonderoga was always running low on basics.

    “Thanks again, Professor.”

    Deacon zipped up the bag and turned around to find her stretched across the couch, fast asleep with her head pillowed on an ancient threadbare cushion.  She looked peaceful in a way only she could sometimes. Deacon adjusted his sunglasses, gave her a thumbs-up, and slipped out the door.


End file.
